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That then to France and belle amour
Bequeathed this mournful strain,
As riding on the yellow sand
With many a knightly feere,
He smote his harp with feeblest hand,
To sing with feebler cheer:
Adieu, proud love! adieu, fair land!
Where heathen banners float,
This broken heart can act its part,
Can die, and be forgot.
Alas! too late;
It was its fate
To learn, with saddest pain,
It loved one
Who scorned to own
Her heart could love again.
Fair France, farewell! my latest breath
Shall still be spent for thee,
While meeting strife, I court my death
In distant Galilee.
My soul is bound up with the glaive
That glitters at my thigh,
And fixed upon the banner brave
Now flashing to the sky.
